Ty cut through the nearest tendril, and the blade shook in his hand.
The sound that came out of it was too soft for the room. It did not sound like metal striking ice. It sounded like a throat trying to work through water, and then the sound was gone. Ty kept the blade moving.
Another tendril snapped in from his left. He turned his shoulder, let it pass close enough to scrape cloth, and cut through the pale root behind it. Black fire ran along the edge and bit deeper than steel should have been able to bite.
The cut pieces fell into the acid and boiled away.
His fingers barely closed around the grip. Cold had turned them slow. Every swing started in his shoulder now, not his hand, and the blade dragged his balance forward if he missed by even a little. A bad swing would put him in the acid before the tendrils needed to touch him.
